


Homeward Bound

by aceholmes



Series: Johnlock Oneshots [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-21 00:19:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1531043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceholmes/pseuds/aceholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes home to a quiet flat after a week with Harry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homeward Bound

**Author's Note:**

> From a tumblr ask from sexyasjohnlock (nice url!) to mynameis-sherlockholmes saying 'John being gone for a week visiting Harry and Sherlock really missing him making tea and so he makes two cups of tea every night and sits in his chair and tells John's chair about his day and his newest case and how none of them are as fun when he's alone and then John coming home late at night and Sherlock is asleep in his chair and there's a cold cup of tea by John's chair and he just grabs a blanket and puts it over Sherlock and whispers, "I'm home.'  
> So thanks for the idea; it's not much but here you are.

London was a completely different city at night. The streets were kept living by the golden glow of the street lamps, and were stages for the street corner drama that would often unfold. In the centre it was still a buzzing hive of urban activity; the typical red buses were still ferrying weary Londoners about the city, although thanks to the glow of the passengers' phones it was likely they weren't even aware of the darkness that had crept in.

It was always cold, though. Some days were colder than others, of course. But at night, it didn't matter how warm it had been in the day; it would always be somewhat chilly. 

Today, it was raining too. Today being the 27th April, and the time being 10:32pm. Not that John was watching the clock (or the digital equivalent in his hand) or anything. 

The cab ride back to Baker Street was proving to be cruelly tedious, and he felt his patience slip right down to Holmes level when the cabbie turned the last corner only to stop and take a phone call.

'You know what? It doesn't matter. I'll walk the rest.' he sighed, closing his eyes, shaking his head, and yanking the door open. His feet slapped down on the tarmac path as he breathed in the not quite so refreshing London air, and he pulled himself up and out the cab.

'Hang on, mate! You 'aven't paid!'

'Yeah, well I can see you're busy!' he called back to the cab resting behind him, as he'd already begun to make his way down the brightly lit road.

God, he could not take any more shit. He just couldn't. A week with Harry had seemed like a break from it all; from the drama of London and Holmeses and body parts in the fridge. Apparently John couldn't have been more wrong. Three drunken sobbing fits and a raging row (that was ten times as bad as any argument he'd ever had with Sherlock) later, and he'd checked into a B&B for the final night. He might had been having a week from hell, but it was a week away from the surgery, and any perfectly flawed human being knows that no matter how much you love your job, it should be avoided at all costs, so he wouldn't dare consider going home (was what he'd told himself when the loneliness had crept in). This rule didn't apply to Sherlock Holmes, however. John hadn't heard from him all week, despite the amount of time he'd been on the doctor's mind. Which was, undoubtably, all week.

Why hadn't he heard from him, though? Sherlock usually texted him relentlessly whenever he was at the surgery, or food shopping, or at the pub, or anywhere for that matter. Yet still, not a peep. There was always the chance that he'd gotten a big case and forgotten about him, obviously. Wouldn't Lestrade have texted him if that had happened, though? Maybe he'd just forgotten about him anyway; it wasn't exactly unlike Sherlock. Or perhaps he hadn't forgotten, but he'd not cared enough to text. Because he had left him, hadn't he? Not just for a day, or for a few hours. For a week. A whole week!

Or maybe he was hurt. Maybe he was in hospital, and they'd only rung his family and not him, and of course Mycroft wouldn't let him know because he's Mycroft and hell, Greg would have text him about _that_ , surely? Unless he hadn't been hurt on a case, maybe it was one of his experiments. For all John knew, he could have tripped or eaten something that was contaminated (he almost laughed at that idea) or burnt himself with that dreadful acid he kept on the table.

No. He was being ridiculous. Sherlock was reckless, sure, but he wasn't stupid. He'd never do something dangerous enough to get himself hospitalised; he wouldn't be able to stand being stuck in there for even a day and he knew it. Besides, Mrs Hudson would have definitely told him.

Regardless, his hands were shaking as he fumbled his key into the lock of the front door, and it wasn't the cold. The latch clicked, and he eased the door open with his elbow, not wanting to wake Mrs Hudson.

The corridor was lit only by the glow of light leaking from 221b. At seeing the light, a small smile trickled onto John's face. So he was probably in. Sherlock forgetting him was a considerably more preferable theory to be correct than Sherlock being in a coma.

Sucking in a deep breath (and not smelling any chemicals), he eased his way up the rickety old wooden stairs. Mrs Hudson really should have had them sorted by now, but then again, after her last experience with repair men he didn't really blame her for being reluctant.

The flat was deathly quiet. No violin, no explosions, not even any footsteps. Two cups of tea, though; one next to his chair and one next to Sherlock's. That was when he finally noticed him. Curled up like a cat and swamped by the leather of his chair, Sherlock was sleeping soundlessly. His limbs protruded at odd angles; his arms crossed over his chest and cushioned his chin, whilst his legs were tucked up as tightly as possible. His lips were pouted into a gentle 'o'; there was no sign of that cynical smirk he usually wore. Lying here, he looked so small, so young, and so very vulnerable, like a child with Sherlock's mop of raven curls. John felt his heart soften.

He shook his head, chuckling lightly. The idiot hadn't even cleared up the mugs since he'd left. Moving slowly and quietly, he scooped up the mugs and padded over to the kitchen. He placed them on the side carefully. Frowning, he felt the mugs with his finger tips. How on earth were they still warm? Not warm enough to drink, but still warm. Besides, hadn't he finished his tea before he left?

'Oh, Sherlock.' he breathed, grinning. He shook his head again as he noticed even more empty cups; far too many for one eccentric detective who appeared to be allergic to any kind of sustenance. Twice as many, in fact.

Leaving the mugs to fester a little more in the kitchen, he crept up to his room. Rummaging through his wardrobe, he uncovered a slightly moth-eaten blanket that he'd found when he'd first moved into the flat. The crimson fabric was surprisingly soft for such a worn old thing, which was why he'd kept it in the first place. He made his way back down to the living room, stepping over stray beakers and- oh God, was that another jar of eyeballs? He'd only just gotten rid of the last one! Nevermind, he'd clear that up later.

Gently draping Sherlock's cocoon like figure in the blanket, he slid onto the arm of the chair and ran his hand over his unruly curls. They felt like perfection under his touch, like the feel of a new jumper or fresh bandages.

'Hey,' he whispered softly. 'I'm home.'

Sherlock didn't stir, but if John hadn't been so busy with his hair, he would have seen a sleepy smile play on his lips. Yeah, John thought to himself. He really was home.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so A) I need to practise my third person, B) I'm no JK Rowling and C) I did this at about 3am ish when I couldn't sleep, so yeah this is ridiculously sloppy. Not entirely sure why I'm posting it. Just, a slightly late disclaimer.


End file.
